“Yes, I know,”—I replied readily—“Rimânez and I have visited her. She is away just now, or she would have been here to-day.”
“Do you like her?” Sibyl queried.
“Very much. She is charming.”
“And ... the prince ... does he like her?”
“Well, upon my word,” I answered with a smile—“I think he likes her more than he does most women! He showed the most extraordinary deference towards her, and seemed almost abashed in her presence. Are you cold, Sibyl?” I added hastily, for she shivered suddenly and her face grew pale—“You had better come away from the river,—it is damp under these trees.”
“Yes,—let us go back to the gardens and the sunshine;”—she answered dreamily—“So your eccentric friend,—the woman-hater,—finds something to admire in Mavis Clare! She must be a very happy creature I think,—perfectly free, famous, and believing in all good things of life and humanity, if one may judge from her books.”
“Well, taken altogether, life isn’t so very bad!” I observed playfully.
She made no reply,—and we returned to the lawns where afternoon tea was now being served to the guests, who were seated in brilliant scattered groups under the trees or within [p 272] the silken pavilions, while the sweetest music,—and the strangest, if people had only had ears to hear it,—both vocal and instrumental, was being performed by those invisible players and singers whose secret whereabouts was unknown to all, save Lucio.